Shannon, The Father


Picture courtesy of the blog,

Tonight, I’m going to make this short.  Not because I don’t have a lot to say, but because I do and I don’t that message getting lost in a lot of needless rhetoric.

My most endearing memory of my nephew, Shannon, is not that of the drug pusher or the gangbanger, but of the father that he was.

I remember on warm summer nights he would come up the back stairs, carrying his young son in his arms and knock on my door and ask, “Hey Auntie Sis, you got any juice boxes?”   My usual answer was yes.  Because I always bought extra for him.

Shannon loved his son and he showed it as often as he could.  Whenever, he was at home, he carried that child around with him everywhere.  

Now, on this warm summer’s night, I miss the sound of…

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